Page 7 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

ENZO

Lucky leads the way to the house, but I’m the one who closes the door and turns the lock.

The girl in the car is blond and frail, a little thing who shouldn’t be old enough to know much about the world and sick fucking men, but she does.

People have this special look when they’ve seen too much, and age doesn’t matter.

This child has definitely lived a hell well beyond her years.

The bourbon smell hits me once we’re locked in. The paint is peeling off the walls, and not even one window sits open. Lucky narrows his eyes and treads carefully, signaling me to do the same. I’m not interested in quiet after what I’ve seen, having a particular grudge against piece-of-shit dads.

My hand and knife reunite as I walk into the house like I own it, and I only stop at the sight of the man curled into the fetal position on the couch, sleeping or more likely passed out.

From the smell, I’m sure he’s drunk. That’s why he never noticed us removing his child or coming inside his house.

His mouth is open, saliva dripping down his chin, and his snores are the only background sound. I hum a song to tune out the sawing.

Lucky makes a beeline for the computer on top of the table.

I’m sure there’s some important information there, but I’ve never been the type for office work.

I crouch in front of the man of the hour instead, truly hungry for what’s to come next.

The tip of the knife gently slides over his skin, but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

Lucky types on the computer behind me, and the sound of his clicking is better than the snores, but it’s still interrupting the song I’m humming as I apply just a little more pressure.

The blade travels from his temple to his chin.

His skin opens in a shallow slice, a white line that wells with blood an instant later. Finally, he opens his eyes.

“Who are you?” he asks, but he’s smart enough not to move when he feels the knife.

“I’m wondering about you. Who are you and what have you done?” I ask. My brother doesn’t offer up any insight, so he must not know either. Lucky can’t contain himself when he thinks he’s right.

“Me? I was sleeping, man!!” Either he’s a better actor than I would have thought or he’s so drunk he’s actually confused.

“A nobody with detailed photos of the Cygnus operation,” Lucky says behind me.

Terrified eyes stick to my brother’s back. He breathes faster as he realizes where Lucky is searching. So he was spying on Cygnus? If his house and child weren’t telling enough, this seals the deal. Not just evil but not very smart, it seems.

“You fucking bastard,” my brother spits.

My knife presses to his throat, and my heart beat picks up in excitement when Lucky stands and marches over to us in a fury.

From behind, he grabs the man by his throat.

My brother is a big guy, and he looks bigger when he’s angry.

Fury oozes off him, and I take a step back, letting Lucky play a little.

He gets involved so rarely that it’s always exciting when he does.

He grips the man’s neck, forcing a yelp, and before he has a chance to understand what’s happening, Lucky throws him against the wall.

A giant crash echoes as the side table falls.

With it, all the half-drank bottles of liquor crash to the floor, breaking and spilling as they slosh across the carpet.

He only leaves Lucky’s hands long enough to hit the ground before he jumps in again, his legs over the man’s legs to stop him from moving as he delivers punch after punch.

“Stop, stop.” His desperate pleas go unanswered.

Does his daughter beg for help, or has she already learned there’s no help here to be found?

His eyes bulge as Lucky continues to work on him.

My brother isn’t an artist like me, but he’s a hard worker, and his effort is a craft of its own.

Glorious and efficient in his own way. Blood coats my brother's knuckles, and while I’m envious of all the delicious pain he’s inflicting, I appreciate him in his natural element.

Lucky always has a good reason, and there’s something dependable about that.

“What did you find?” I ask, sure it must have been something to inspire such a reaction from him.

Lucky delivers the last punch, wet and fleshy, right to the bottom of his lung.

He coughs and heaves, trying to catch his breath but failing.

Lucky takes a breather, still holding him by the filthy collar, prepared to beat him further.

He turns his head, long enough to meet my eyes as he says, “He has fucking naked pictures of his kid.”

I take a step toward the computer, but Lucky stops me. “Don’t. It’s not good.”

My brother is pale, his eyes hard, and his breathing shallow as if he is nauseous.

I don’t look at the pictures. I don’t want to see them.

I might be sick, but I’m not a curse upon this world, something sick enough to feed off his own blood or the innocent.

Instead, I move the knife between my fingers, planning exactly where I’d like to put it, breathing in the stagnant air in this forsaken house, the same putrid rot the girl would have to smell.

“Put him on the table,” I say.

There’s no right place for art, no right place for justice.

It happens when it needs to happen. Fate itself is on my side.

Lucky nods, surprising me. He’s usually so careful, but it makes sense he’s willing to take more risks for this one.

He really is a miserable excuse for a monster.

Lucky drags his ass to the kitchen table.

It’s covered in more bottles and some paraphernalia, but there are no other signs he’s using dope, so this might belong to a friend.

Lucky uses his body to swipe the crap away to the floor.

The crash fills the room, and finally, he lies on top of an empty table.

Once he’s lying flat, he’s been beaten thoroughly enough that he has no hopes of escaping.

He barely thrashed against the table, scared but holding on to his consciousness by a thread.

I stand over top of him, savoring what must be done, the beauty the universe calls me to make out of his disgusting, betraying flesh.

My knife finds the slight cut on his face I opened before, and I widen it into something ghastly.

The blade cuts through him like butter, quickly finding the bone beneath.

He screams, but I use the opportunity to shove a nice embroidered napkin in his open mouth.

I pulled it from my own pocket. He isn’t the type to spend his money on anything but his vices.

Moving to his chest, I open the shirt, spread his arm, and start my work.

A while later, he’s on his stomach, his shoulder pulled apart in delicate pieces, a testimony to my skill. I splay the shoulder blade out to display it like a spreading and lifting wing. By the time I do so, he’s passed out from the pain or dead. It doesn’t really matter now.

Death, angel's wings, fly off the canvas and lift into the sky to freedom and divinity. This is the greatest thing his body has ever done in this world, and even this is doomed to rot, to sour before the sun even fully sets.

Most people wouldn’t expect it, but I believe in God, a hungry, vengeful one who receives tribute through sacrifice and gruesome representations of art, madness, beauty, and devotion. I think of Marcella as I move the pieces into place. Would she understand my work? Would she appreciate it?

The thought of her running from me, rejecting me, is so painful I nearly slip and make a mistake in my work, but only nearly.

It’s far too precious to me for that. Lucky moves around the house as I cut, but like usual, I pay very little attention to him.

The door opens, changing the atmosphere in the room entirely as someone enters what I’ve just ordained as sacred space.

I almost turn on them, but I know better enough for that.

A few minutes ago, I might not have been able to stop.

The child speaks, but her voice comes from farther away, and I hope no one lets her see.

I know all too well the effects of seeing a parent dead can have on a child.

I’ve certainly never been the same since that night.

Someone talks to the kid about the pictures on the computer, asking her if she remembers a camera. She does.

One of Cygnus’s men checks the perimeter.

I think his name is Rat, or some other stupid, useless nickname that fits him perfectly.

From the sounds of the commotion, Cygnus is angry that I decided to do this here.

That amuses and annoys me in equal measures.

I like him knowing that despite us choosing to work for him, he doesn’t ultimately pull the strings, but on the other hand, aren’t they impressed at all?

I’m doing all this without my usual tools, and the execution of the final pose really is exquisite.

Don’t they understand that there’s no waiting in poetry?

There’s no reason in chaos? Some things simply have to happen as they are and without explanation.

Fate is cruel and decisive. He had to die in the place he caused so much pain, the place he betrayed his own blood for his perversions.

This is where I repay him with all the pain he brought to others.

This is the place where he takes his last breath.

I'm not sure when he died exactly, but I’m sure now that he is.

All I can think about is Marcella and how I know Lucky lied to me about seeing her earlier, but what happened to get him so worked up?

I didn’t see that. My Marcella makes the world better.

She fills this worthless scrap of rock and flesh with music.

I hum the song she danced to in her last video.

Her raw passion is unmatched. It moves me, and all I want to do is run back to her.

I should bring her a present, something that tells her just how much she changes me, from the inside out.

“Enzo?” I hear my name.

I turn back to the exposed ribs, using the profoundly sharp tip of the knife to separate one rib from the cage.

I pull the slippery bone free, long and beautiful, and decide this will do.

It’s the thickest of his ribs, strong, perfect for my plans.

Someone clears their throat, and I’ve finally settled from my frenzy enough to pay them my attention.

I look around, seeing the room for what feels like the first time.

I’m a different person before and after the haze.

Cygnus is here. Diego is his real name. Dark eyes and hair, more tattoos than anyone really needs. There’s a rumor that his dick is pierced seven times over too. I’d ask him about it, but he’s never seemed too friendly. He’s watching me with unease.

“Are you finished?” he asks, but it doesn’t feel like I have a choice.

The people in the room are pressing closer, each of them watching me like an animal.

My eyes turn to my brother, and I settle down when I see he’s watching them, not me.

He’s on my side like always. My plan will work.

Looking between the rib in my hand and the table, I decide that I’m done here.

“The little girl?” I ask.

“She’s taken care of,” he says.

I nod. I don’t need to know anything else. I’m not some fairy godmother who came to save the day. I did my work and she will be safe now. Lucky stands by the door, his knuckles still bleeding from his outburst. My eyes move to the bone in my hands, the blood and connective tissue still attached.

“You won’t miss this, will you?” I ask.

He looks perplexed by my question. “Can’t see why I would.”

“Thanks,” I say as I leave the house behind and head to the car.